


Not So Far Away

by ZephyrCamida



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blow Jobs, Foreskin Play, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mostly Pwp, Multiple Orgasms, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Scratching, Smut, Wall Sex, future!Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:37:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZephyrCamida/pseuds/ZephyrCamida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is different now, and memories of happier, simpler times are a thing of the long, long past. Memories that once left his chest warm, and mind tingling with pride, now buried by others that leave him messy – dirty and wishing he, too, could have even an ounce of something more blissful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Far Away

* * *

 

Hajime glances out the window, eyes blankly staring out into the late night, at the luminous flickering of a nearby streetlamp that showers part of the hotel room in an eerie amber. Bare, slumbering trees swaying with a winter breeze, remnants of leaves rustling on the concrete of the parking lot – he views them with disinterest. It's easily what one would call a calming scene – silent, serene, contemplative – but Hajime's mind doesn't match the gentle aura illuminating mellow light upon his features.

 

He leans back, shoulder jutting up against the smooth, curving back of the sofa chair he sits in as he takes a full drag of his cigarette. The brunet watches with narrowed eyes as the tobacco burns to brilliant life momentarily, then fades just as quickly – fleeting.

 

No, Hajime definitely does not feel at all rested, or light, or at peace.

 

This room makes him stiff with a deep-dwelling ache, one he can't snuff out with the flippant ease of burying the smolder of a cigarette. An inescapable fortress in the form of a small, middle class suite that no matter the resistance, Hajime returns, visits again days or months or even a year later than the last.

 

Fucking ridiculous, pathetic even. But, here he is, sitting in a plush faux-leather chair, next to an overly tacky green lamp and single queen bed. Sitting next to a window, waiting for something he doesn't want to name. Naming it would mean acknowledgment, and doing so will never be so easy.

 

Life is different now, and memories of happier, simpler times are a thing of the long, long past. Memories that once left his chest warm, and mind tingling with pride, now buried by others that leave him messy – dirty and wishing he, too, could have even an ounce of something more blissful.

 

He wishes, just like every time he visits this lonely hotel, that he would have made a different decision way back then, years ago.

 

Hajime shakes his head, trying to derail the thoughts digging into his skull, repeatedly ticking like the metronome of a time bomb. The brunet glances at his bulky and stuffed to the brim duffle bag thrown not so neatly under the stand alone sink. No one knows he's moving back to town, after all, so there isn't anything to expect this time. Nothing. _No one._ He doesn't want to expect it, _him,_ anymore – the plague under his skin, corroding his heart.

 

Of course, he's lying. Always lying.

 

Almost an hour since he's checked in, and the brunet briefly looks over at the phone sitting on the oak office desk – curious, he supposes. Realizing the folly in that, Hajime grunts and turns away, flicking the butt of his cigarette to dust off the built up ash from the edge. He refuses to think further on the matter, simply diverts his dark gaze back out the window, back into that dim luminescence.

 

It's within minutes that Hajime startles, body twitching as the buzzing from his cell phone reverberates through the hotel bedroom, clatters softly on the wooden table. At first, the brunet watches it like some pungent piece of trash he's just discovering, eyebrows arching high and the corner of his lip curled. But as it continues to rattle, Hajime's heart slowly begins to join in tandem, thudding hard like the beat on a ritual drum. He doesn't have to look at the screen to know who it is – no one else ever dares to call him this late at night – brows furrowing at the impossibility of that damn idiot calling now of all times.

 

No fucking way.

 

Hajime scoffs, scratches roughly at his scalp before reaching for the vibrating affliction sitting on the stand. He doesn't have to look at all, blindly taking it into his free hand and sliding his thumb over the bottom to receive the call – moving like a marionette, powerless to the direction of his strings. The brunet is already hearing the familiar, garish voice in his ears before the other end can even get a word in.

 

This coincidental timing couldn't be more horrid. Son of a _bitch_.

 

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” the voice that murmurs in his ear sounds oddly relieved, though all Hajime can do is let out a deep, knowing sigh, smoke seeping through his lips. Such a familiar timbre that reminds the brunet of the days way back when. Days when walks to school, evening practices followed by curious touches and kisses, and tear-filled determination were the norm. His name on those thin lips sounded much sweeter back then.

 

And they rocked his soul less violently.

 

“Oikawa,” he replies shortly, tired body croaking in protest as he scoots himself up off his chair and pads slowly across the room – feet dragging carelessly along the carpet. He buries the knowledge of his ears ringing from that one little breath of his name. It's been so long, this shouldn't affect him like it does, damn it. It does though, because the speed that his heart is racing at is debilitating, chaotic.

 

“ _Aww, someone sounds grumpy today~_ ” Hajime can't help but roll his eyes, takes a full-lung drag of his tobacco and exhales heavily. He circles the room, entirely focused on that stupid voice simpering in his ear. Definitely not how said voice gives him goosebumps, or heart palpitations, or a dry throat. The dark brunet pinches the filter of the cigarette between index and middle, as if the physical action cuts off his mental trajectory.

 

“Yes, because everyone is a fucking ray of sunshine at 11 o' clock at night,” comes the clipped reply as he rounds back to the ashtray, aggressively digging the remnants of filter and ash into it. He pats his hand on his pants, tilting his head back to look at the plain ceiling above. Wonders why he's even having this conversation right now, why he's humoring this damn brat with late night prattle. Why he even answered the phone. The feeling only intensifies when Tooru chuckles into his ear, voice light and airy, happy even.

 

“ _I'm_ sorry _, Iwa-chan, my labs went late, don't be mad._ ”

 

Hajime hears the hints of reprimand and sorely wishes the guy was in front of him so he could knock him one. For old time's sake. Definitely.

 

He runs a rough hand through his fringe, exhales, “Why are you calling?” Hajime doesn't really need to ask, as the answer is always the same, and always will be – ever since they separated for college four years ago, Hajime only an hour away for police academics and Oikawa much farther for medical school.

 

Yet, at the same time he asks anyway, because delaying the inevitable gives him the chance to calm the nervous rumbling in his chest. He fucking hates that it still happens, even now, even after almost a year of no contact. Hates it like mad, because he can't stop it. Because the blood rushing through his veins reiterates his desire for it deep down, like a prodding voice in the back of his mind.

 

“ _Iwa-chan, I want to see you, of course. It's been so long._ ”

 

 _Of course_. Of fucking course. The brunet swallows a grunt, the fingers bracing his phone tightening. This guy has some nerve, really. He could burn a hole in the ceiling for how hard he's staring at it, and eventually Hajime pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“How do you even know I'm in town?”  
“ _A baby crow might have told me._ ”

 

Ah, shit, that's right. The police department he's transferring to is the same one as –

 

“Since when do you talk to Kageyama now?” Hajime questions with an obvious hint of irritation. Those two being within proximity is never a good thing, not with Tooru's antagonistic idiosyncrasies.

 

“ _I just happened to run into him, is all. He's really happy to be under your guidance,_ ” the dark brunet hears the faint sound of a railway whistle blowing, and furrows his brow when Tooru adds. “ _Boy, Iwa-chan, you don't have to be jealous. Oikawa-san is allll yours._ ”

 

“Fuck off,” Hajime growls in return, ready to throw the phone across the room.

 

Acting like that's really a concrete thing – Tooru being his. More like crumbles of pavement pricking the bottom of your foot after a wrong step. _Get a fucking clue, you dense asshole_ , he thinks to himself bitterly. You aren't someone's _anything_ when you don't see them for months at a time, and certainly not when you're a flighty little thing like Tooru is. They'd be demoted to acquaintances if it wasn't for Hajime's stubborn clinging to their childhood backdrop – something he refuses to relinquish, even to their more vulgar status of the present. There's far too much under that belt for him to let Tooru release it to the wind.

 

Hajime pauses to suck in a deep breath, tries to calm the dissonance sitting in his gut. It's most certainly short-lived.

 

“ _If you really want me to, I can do it right here,_ ” Tooru practically purrs in the receiver, velvet words pouring down Hajime's body like an electric current. Hajime boils under the surface, unable to shake it off. Son of a bitch, this guy really has it out for him.

 

“Knock it off, Shittykawa!” he hisses into the phone, pulling it in front of him for aggravated emphasis. Old habits die hard, but the brunet really, _really_ doesn't want to deal with this right now. Tooru or his perverted ass or that quaking feeling erupting from his body because he knows that sooner rather than later, he's going to cave under that persuasion. He'll cave brilliantly and with the subtlety of a blaring foghorn. Because no amount of harsh words or aggressive accusations will change the fact that even years after the fact, Hajime still wants this guy.

 

And if Tooru appears to him now, Hajime will take him with everything he has in that buried, corrupt heart of his.

 

When he hears the faint clinking of metal, all his thoughts run crazy with the image of Tooru kneeling in front of him, slowly dragging his zipper down and closing a fist around his own cock. Making that face as he pumps himself up and down in a sloppy motion, mouth puckering and eyes fluttering. Coming undone on the very floor, uncaring of his crass display or of the dirty words leaving his lips.

 

Hajime knows it's already happened. He's long gone and he beats himself with all the rancor in the world for dropping so easily.

 

“ _But you know, Iwa-chan, it feels really good? When I touch myself thinking about you._ ” Tooru's sighing in the phone, breathy and quiet and Hajime imagines him _here_ , right in front of him, as if he could reach out a hand and touch him with tanned fingers.

 

_Fuck._

 

“Don't you dare,” he grounds out, kicking the carpet with his foot, and rubbing the back of his neck. Hajime definitely ignores the stiffening in his groin, the stress against his slacks, and _definitely_ the quiet mewl in the receiver that seems like it's more a devastating scream in his mind. This fucking _guy._

 

“ _Where are you staying right now, Iwa-chan? Are you in your new place yet?_ ”

 

“Like hell I am telling you that!” he bursts immediately. He's lying though – to himself, to Tooru, and he knows it. Hajime finds himself back in the sofa chair, elbow propping on the arm and face burying into his clammy palm. For what it's worth, Tooru probably already knows which hotel he's staying in. They've been here before, many, _many_ times. Maybe not this exact room, or this exact floor, but they've been here – touched here, fucked here.

 

He can still remember the taste of sweat on Tooru's skin from the summer heat and their rough fucking that last time they were here, salty and beading in glimmering droplets under a bright noon-high sun glaring in the window.

 

The dark brunet curses the fact that he couldn't just stay somewhere else, curses the fact that heknows Tooru is already on his way here because like Hajime, Tooru _knows_ him. Most of all, the brunet curses that nerve-splitting current that leaves him charged from head to toe.

 

“ _Iwa-chan, you're at -that- place, aren't you?_ ” Tooru sounds windswept, and Hajime knows it's game over. He grits his teeth, unable to respond as he further tangles himself in the web he's spun for himself. He set his own trap by answering that phone, and it's springing without inhibition now – sealing his fate like a bullet to the head. The dark brunet distantly hears Tooru calling his name in the receiver and scoffs deeply through his nose, frustrated that he no longer even has the urge to hang up on this damn guy. He probably didn't in the first place – Hajime plays a large game of denial every time.

 

It hurts less that way.

 

“Room 41, and if you take too long, I am _not_ fucking letting you in,” he hangs up instantly, slamming that end call button like his life depends on it and tosses the phone at the bed, where it slides off the other side and onto the floor with a brief thud. Hajime clicks his tongue, sitting there gazing out the window once again, watching that wretched pale orange light. He sweeps a palm over his face, slumps himself back in the arm chair, and tilts his head back to rest on the less than comfortable cushion ledge.

 

“Fuck,” he grumbles, fishing for his cigarette pack on the table. “ _Fuck._ ”

 

Hajime's heart is already pounding hard in his chest. He lights another cigarette.

 

– – –

 

It's less than forty minutes before the hotel phone rings, breaking the pregnant silence that Hajime has been stewing in since his little outburst. He slowly snuffs out his cigarette, the fourth since then, and picks up the clunky off-white receiver.

 

It's the service desk, inquiring about a guest at the counter asking for him. _Tooru_ at the front counter asking for him.

 

Heart in his throat, Hajime wearily consents and hangs up the phone. Then reaches for another stress-reducing cigarette and finds the pack empty. Damn it.

 

He squashes the little pack in his hand, little flecks of loose tobacco bursting with the forceful puff of air. A knock alerts him from the other side of the room just as Hajime is tossing the garbage away, the noise barely discernible from his corner. The dark brunet eyes the door with a raised brow, wondering if he heard right or if his frenzied mind is playing tricks on him. Jumping the gun, so to speak. It's only been about a minute, hasn't it? And he's on the fourth floor, as well as down the hall, so yeah, must have been his nerves.

 

The knock comes again, the tiniest bit louder, and the dark brunet can't help but eye the door as if caught like a deer in the headlights. Hajime swallows that thundering pulse, makes a B-line across the room that seems to stretch forever now that Tooru is on the other side, and yanks the door open with an unavoidable urgency that leaves Hajime both inwardly cursing and willing himself to move _faster_.

 

Tooru's doubled over, hand now resting on the door frame, breathing so heavy that Hajime almost thinks he can hear wheezing – though he can't see much of the face that's hidden by that familiar mop of russet hair. Cow licks and curls and all. He can, though, see the red staining those high curve cheeks and not for the first time ( _god knows how many times now_ ) and definitely not the last, Hajime's heart threatens to spring from his rib cage.

 

Just hearing Tooru's voice in person – even if it is only deep panting – nicks something loose in Hajime's chest. He stomps it flat just as quickly.

 

Hajime stirs, dark eyes taking in the person who should, on nearly all counts, be a stranger with how rare it is to see him. But, of course, every little detail (every crevice, every lock of unkempt hair, every mark) is as he remembers it. _Of course it is_.

 

He drinks the vision in like a parched desert walker, because who knows what's going to happen, or how long the next gap will be. Would there even be a next time? The idea makes his heart drop, ugly, heavy beats making his stomach hurt.

 

Tooru's eyes finally lift from the floor as he straightens himself, and the look on his face is entirely indescribable. A flushed face, blotchy with various shades of pink and red from the outside chill, stares back at him, exhausted and breathless from what looks like a whole hell of a lot of running. The way his eyes both soften and dilate, that normally nasty mouth slowly spreading in a smile that clearly emanates elation and relief – Hajime hears the wires of restraint in his chest snapping one by one, leaving him mentally derailed.

 

He can't even process anything else other than the man before him, within reach. When did he become so dangerously enamored? That old saying – absence makes the heart grow fonder – is a load of crock. It's made Hajime pensive at the very least, and outright deranged at the very most – cracking and rendering him unable to create cohesive thoughts. It all circles back to Tooru, heart pirouetting on broken glass.

 

His old time childhood friend takes a small step forward – more like _leans_ into Hajime's bubble as if being pulled by magnetism, “Iwa-chan...” One word, or should he say, one name – his name, it washes his system entirely of his back and forth battle, this tug of war between his denying mind and the freight train thudding hidden in his ribs. The warm tone is the final, _final_ straw. Hajime's hand is clenching onto Tooru's shirt before his mind can even flinch or argue, lips pressing in a thin line.

 

He cracks, cracks, shatters – and it's all over from there.

 

Heart at the forefront, Hajime yanks him inside, noting not-so-sourly as he draws Tooru close how even his scent is familiar, blowing through the willowy smoke and infusing his senses with a throbbing he wishes he could stifle just a little because fuck, it's so damn _loud_. He snaps his lips over Tooru's, devours him the instant he kicks the door shut with an aggravated foot. Kisses him hard, with zealous, and the very taste on his tongue fuels him like a drug.

 

_Fuck it._

 

He senses carelessness in Tooru's reaction as well – the tall brunet doesn't care that Hajime has the him in a nearly painful vice grip, nor that he's attacking Tooru with bruising kisses and an insistent tongue that presses between gasping lips. He knows because Tooru is simply breathing it all in, heavy inhalation like Hajime is his only source of air and moans vibrating deep in this throat as his body slams tight against the door.

 

Hajime snuffs out any hint of reprieve, barely giving Tooru time to breathe, and growls as needy hands bury into his black, spiky hair. Lets Tooru's chilled hands cascade down his neck and bunch fistfuls of his shirt collar, clutching at it for dear life in the attempt to pull Hajime closer. Closer until there's nothing between them, and nothing exists outside.

 

It's not a hard feat to accomplish on Hajime's end, at least – Tooru has been the only thing he sees since long, long ago.

 

The rush intensifies as Tooru hums against his lips, tasting everything, and murmurs in a distantly velvet voice, “You taste like tobacco, Iwa-chan. Smoking is bad, you know?”

 

“Got a problem with it, bastard?”

 

Tooru licks slowly between Hajime's lips, dragging the wet muscle along glossy teeth, “Mmm, not at all. I love the way you taste, _Iwa-chan_ ~ I miss it. ”

 

Hajime mutters something incoherently, ignores the pawing fingers and snatches the scarf from Tooru's neck, followed by his navy petticoat. He strips him with an urgency that makes him think he's in some feverish heat, like some fucking animal, but Hajime can't be bothered to care. Judging from the fingers pulling desperately at his clothes and dark locks, Tooru agrees with his impetuous pace.

 

The long slope of Tooru's neck is warm to the touch, increasingly so, as their kisses become messier and Hajime lathers him in intermittent bites. The dark brunet pulls back, taking Tooru's bottom lip with him as he retreats, low-lidded coal eyes watching with simmering exhilaration – ears tingling at the pleasant whimper he hears slipping out.

 

Tooru gasps as he's pressed even harder against the door with a rough shove. Hajime feels the smoldering in his stomach, a strong burning that matches the intense look in his dark eyes. The tall brunet shudders under his gaze, eyes fluttering about as if blinded by the scrutiny he's under, and settles on Hajime's chest moments later. He suddenly purses his lips, face a healthy shade of pink, and Hajime thinks he hears a soft purring come from Tooru's throat.

 

“Aww, I don't get to see you in your uniform, _Mr. Police Officer_?”

 

Hajime knows that he's being baited with provocative words, but he catches it instantly – hook, line, and sinker.

 

“Fuck you.” Hajime reaches behind Tooru's head, taking a handful of his soft locks and yanks his head back unceremoniously. Tooru simply grins wider, lets out a choppy laugh as Hajime bites at his jaw.

 

“ _Please_ ,” he murmurs back breathlessly, voice husky.

 

Hajime resists the rumble crackling in his throat, simply continues to seize those fowl lips in an effort to shut him up and flicks his tongue against the plush skin. He's silent for the longest time, the sounds of Tooru's hiccuped breathing and tiny mewls, along with the rampant cacophony in his ears are the only things he can register.

 

The dark brunet tilts his head, buries the audibility of those noisy gasps under a deep focus on the flesh beneath his lips, desperate to erase them from his frantic brain. Hajime haphazardly thrusts his groin forward, body so tight against Tooru's that they're nearly one being, sealed from firm chests to their clothed, rubbing erections.

 

He pulls at Tooru's nape, mouth traipsing briefly along the curve of his chin, “Why do we keep doing this?”

 

He doesn't know why the question pops out now, but it's there and he almost feels like something's off when Tooru twitches in his grasp. A suffocating feeling envelops the room, wire-tight and ready to snap under the slightest pressure. Hajime tries to erase the feeling by peppering Tooru with mouthy, wet kisses, but the tall brunet still attempts to answer between them.

 

“Because – Iwa-chan – and I – go – _way –_ back?”  
Hajime responds to that shitty answer with a sharp bite to a sensitive bottom lip, “Try again, bastard.”

 

“...because sex with you feels amazing,” Tooru purrs against his lips, tongue darting out playfully to meet Hajime's.

 

Hajime both loves and hates this answer. Endlessly spinning, he tries to reason against this obviously true fact.

 

“What about your fanclub? Ain't there plenty of girls throwing themselves at your feet in college?” Tooru simpers, eyeing the man tearing at more of his clothes and dragging teeth along his jaw. “Why not let them satisfy your shitty cravings?”

 

The tall brunet falters between hot kisses, voice low and strained, “Girls are precious treasures, Iwa-chan. You have to treat them gently, like princesses.”

 

“Hah??” Hajime eyes him darkly, and the room only grows hotter. He can tell Tooru's exploding with excitement under his stare, body shivering under the surface with a frighteningly contagious heat, if he's mirroring anything remotely close to Hajime's current state of being.

 

Tooru caresses his bony digits into the scalp hiding under the short black tresses of Hajime's hair, murmurs wetly in his ear, “No one can mess me up like you do, Iwa-chan.”

 

Just from that alluring, provocative tone, Hajime can feel his brain conjuring up an underlying message. _No one is allowed, except you._

 

Hajime's chest burns – such a fraudulent illusion.

 

“Tch,” Hajime gnaws the skin under his lips, glaring into nothingness. He shouldn't have asked, he reasons much too late. He shouldn't have asked because while what Tooru said is true, a not so small part of him is wishing that great sex _was_ all this was. How much easier this whole affair would be if that was the case.

 

But it's not – sex is not the only reason why he told Tooru which room number he was staying in, not even close, and sex is not the reason why he pulled him in and instantly claimed those lips. It's not, and Hajime knows it. Sex is only a small component of something much larger, and exceptionally heartbreaking.

 

Falling in love hurts.

 

The dark brunet wanders down a tight-corded tendon of Tooru's throat, scrapes his canines over a soft spot on the juncture near his shoulder. Pushing insistent fingers between the buttons of Tooru's shirt – touching at hidden skin – and stretching the span of neck longer with a tug of the other hand in the dusty brown curls. Hajime holds back a heavy sigh, drowns his thoughts with steel-sharp focus.

 

“Iwa-chan...” the sound that reverberates in Hajime's ear is startling, Tooru's tone reflects a brief sense of discord, and the sudden peppering of kisses on his own skin are wet, needy. “Iwa-chan, it's not – _ahh_.” Hajime scissors his teeth on a pale patch of flesh, silencing his partner's words. He doesn't want to think, and doesn't want that voice haunting him anymore. Tooru gasps, fingers flinching where they cling to Hajime's shirt.

 

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru bubbles, voice like velvet, smooth and dark as Hajime nudges a hard knee between his lean thighs. Eyes zoning downward, Hajime pops a button, then another, just enough to slip a strong hand inside, sliding along the dip of Tooru's clavicle, over a tense pectoral. The taller brunet hums approvingly, rolls his head to the opposite side as Hajime coaxes the fabric down his shoulder, and continues his rough ministrations on the pale collar.

 

For a split moment, Hajime imagines what it would be like, slowly peeling the shirt off Tooru's body, branding his flushed skin in mark after burning mark as he works his mouth down the slope of his taut neck – gentle and slow and exploring, truly relishing this person he greatly treasures underneath all the pretenses. He fantasizes only for a moment, because being gentle isn't their thing. It can't be, because feelings will come spiraling out, and Hajime won't allow that. When you're not in love mutually, you can't even play pretend.

 

Instead he's roughly popping buttons and diving increasingly swollen lips across the chilled, exposed skin, shoving the article of clothing down – stretching it to the strained seams.

 

He can tell Tooru's long lost under the escalating intensity of their foreplay, a dragging moan escaping those pink lips as Hajime mars him with teeth (and tongue and bold fingertips). He's gone, drowning in harshness and urgency. The dark brunet prefers it this way, the thick air circulating the room and the flaring heat burning him raw.

 

Hajime only hopes he can drag Tooru down into his hell too, so he doesn't have to suffer alone.

 

Tooru fidgets, unable to stop forking his digits through Hajime's hair, panting and clinging wherever he can catch with fumbling fingers. Hajime's back to nibbling at his lips, working his way back faster than his own frenzied mind can keep up with and delves deep in Tooru's mouth with a fervent tongue within moments. Licks the soft inside of Tooru's lip, teases the roof of his mouth with flicks, making the tall man shiver and giggle all at once, then mewl helplessly as Hajime expertly pulls on his tongue and sucks the wet muscle. He knows all of Tooru's sweet spots, even after months of absence, and he knows this excites the caramel brunet. Knows he'll be a puddle of malleability in a short time, if he isn't already.

 

Tooru's fingers tighten, pulling Hajime closer, so much so that their teeth clatter and his lip ends up bit from the mess between them. Dark eyes bore into Tooru's with a hint of warning, but they both simply continue to blend into each other in a rough dance – an amazingly filthy disaster.

 

Hajime's lips are kiss-bruised by the time he's crouching lower, brushing along hot skin, pinching sensitive spots with impulsive fingers. Tooru's shirt falls to the floor with a small flutter as the dark brunet seals his mouth over a pert nipple, rolling his wet tongue over it and breathing hot air in the form of a chuckle as Tooru arches into the touch – whining from above. Eyeing the squirming man above him, Hajime lightly trails down the span of pale stomach, thumbing along Tooru's navel, and briskly fastening on the belt buckle of his pants with firm digits.

 

He drops to his knees, grinning heatedly at the flustered look on his partner's otherwise usually smug face. Grins because he can see the last ashes of composure slipping from Tooru's face as he smolders, sees the blown pupils and glistening wetness left on his lips – highlighted by the phosphorous glow peeking in seductively from the window. Now that light fits the mood, and illuminates Tooru's flaming skin brilliantly, Hajime finds. Makes the dark brunet want to claim every single inch.

 

“ _Iwa-chan..._ ” Tooru breathes, voice carnal, exposed as he peers down at Hajime with hazy browns. Gasps when the man at his feet clicks the buckle free and shucks his jeans down to shaking knees.

 

Hajime seizes a leg with brash fingers, drags his lips along the smooth surface of Tooru's inner thigh, feels the twitches coursing through the jumping muscles just below. He clamps down with pearly whites, hard but not enough to break skin – just enough for the brunet to whimper and buckle his hips – and continues to do so in a torturous line up, up, up until he's nibbling on the cotton of Tooru's underwear.

 

“Where's that smug composure of yours, Oikawa?” Hajime asks as he runs a knuckle over the stiff bulge in front of him, pressing lazily at the wet spot on the fabric. The tiny whine that the dark brunet hears is like music to his ears – a rare, sweet tune.

 

Ah, yes, this momentum lets Hajime forget, let's him focus on capsizing this person instead – on unwinding him.

 

His fingertips dance along the waist band, dipping under and tugging just enough so Tooru's pelvic bones are revealed, “Should I get you off first?”

 

The man above him jolts, knees buckling forward the slightest bit as Hajime coaxes his boxer briefs out and over his cock, the appendage jutting out from the lack of restraint. Tooru flares his nostrils, groans quietly as the Hajime blows cool air over his sensitive skin.

 

“Iwa-chan, you know I can't ta – _ahh_ ,” he lets out a tight moan, Hajime lapping a languid trail up the dripping cock with the very tip of his tongue. A hand fastens on his shoulder, clamping tight as he curls the wet muscle into the grove along Tooru's foreskin, lapping just inside and teasing the smooth ridge. A high-toned keen pitches from the tall brunet's mouth, knees snapping back in an effort to keep himself upright. Lifting a brow, Hajime digs his tongue deeper under that silken flap of skin, flattening and swirling a languorous circle around the barely exposed head of Tooru's cock. .

 

“Really? But, you're so _wet_ down here,” Hajime rumbles, sliding the foreskin down. Keeping index and thumb tightly circled around the base, he massages his other digits softly around Tooru's sac, pressing the underside. The hand on Hajime soon becomes two as Tooru bows over, mouth open wide and body quaking.

 

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” he whines, begging weakly before breaking out in a messy sob as Hajime pokes at the dribbling slit of his flushed cock with puckered lips. Flicks his tongue down on it and pushes hard, licks up the pearls of precome. The dark brunet's skin burns with the sudden scratching from Tooru's desperate fingers, but he doesn't let it deter him in the least. He takes the swollen head into his mouth, vacuum tight, and sucks it. Assaults it with lips and tongue – unabashed and ruthless.

 

The noise Tooru makes sounds absolutely anguished, nails digging even deeper in Hajime's tawny flesh, scratching up flaming trails along his shoulders. He hurts, but it feels good in some twisted way, Hajime realizes as he drifts his free hand around Tooru's ass, cupping a cheek and pinching, eliciting another sharp trill from above.

 

Fondling with tightly braced fingers, and swallowing with swollen lips and teasing tongue around the throbbing cock, Hajime continues to work Tooru into a tizzy while he slides his free hand further along the cleft of the tall brunet's ass. He finds a surprisingly wet mess as his thumb brushes Tooru's hole, and sends a heated stare up to the man caterwauling.

 

“You're wet down here, Oikawa,” he growls, mouth never leaving the reddened skin at the tip of Tooru's erection. He watches those plump lips pinch into a thin line as he lightly pushes a finger into that tight heat, watches that same mouth pop open as he buries it to the knuckle – Tooru's eyes, glossy and dark, focusing hazily between what Hajime's mouth is doing and trying to gaze a hole through his stomach to see the digit that's dragging along his walls.

 

Tooru gasps, voice shaky, “Because Iwa-chan said there wasn't a lot of time. So I prepared myself – _ahhh!_ ”

 

“Hmm? Prepared, huh,” the dark brunet vibrates, slurping wetly down Tooru's cock, slips in a second finger to join the first in a sharp dive back into his quivering ass. “How?”

 

Tooru whines, whines loud, and bony fingers are finally giving Hajime's wounded skin a reprieve and instead clawing into his thick, black hair. He's being noisy and panting harshly and Hajime can't get enough of the man before him spiraling out of control from all his attention.

 

“In the lobby b-bathroom, I – _oh,_ Iwa-chan, please,” Tooru stutters, dissolving into a helpless beg as he clings to Hajime's crouching form, half-hugging his head. “Please, I'm ready, _please._ ”

 

Hajime sucks down hard on Tooru's cock, scrapes fingers along his quaking walls, rubbing and nudging his knuckles hard against the limit. Tooru chokes on his breath, pulls at dark locks and nearly drops when Hajime bottoms out, nose burying into the small patch of russet curls.

 

“Ha – ah, gonna... _Iwa-chan_ ,” his voice is watery, gasps spilling between words. Hajime looks up with narrowed, dark eyes. Tooru's face is so very stained with red, blotchy and bright on his cheeks. “Please, I'm gonna come...”

 

Hajime stops then, pulling his fingers out of that slick entrance with a moist pop and letting Tooru's cock fall from his lips, watches the tall brunet nearly crack from either relief or need. Tooru bites his lip, breathing heavily through his nose, digits dancing restlessly on Hajime's stinging skin, unconsciously tugging at his ears and thumbing his cheekbones as if simply touching Hajime is the only thing keeping him grounded.

 

The dark brunet removes Tooru's pants the rest of the way, coaxes each foot out and shucks the clothing off to the side, leaving him completely nude and shivering under his heavy stare. He presses an almost apologetic kiss to the right knee, and lets Tooru paw around his face – listens to him whine quietly, the little whimpers of ' _Meanie Iwa-chan. Mean, mean, mean_.'

 

Yeah, he's cruel alright, Hajime will be the first to admit, but Tooru is too. So much so that he can't stand this calm before the storm. Hajime glances up, catches delirious irises with a silent stare, and unbuttons his own trousers, trapping Tooru heatedly with coal eyes as he works down his zipper, and pulls out his cock – throbbing and stiff between wet fingers.

 

Tooru visibly swallows, eyeing with glossy orbs as Hajime gets to his feet and lets their cocks bump together obscenely. Rubs for effect partly because it feels so _good_ to his neglected erection, and partly because Tooru's twitching beautifully.

 

Hajime watches the taller brunet lick his pink lips, then pucker them. Watches Tooru lean forward, placing shaky hands on his shoulders and shudder when Hajime caresses a hand down along Tooru's thigh, circling it and squeezing the tender flesh as it flexes under his touch. He bends further, cupping carefully around Tooru's right knee, guides it up, then over the groove of his arm, ensnares it in a vice grip while he positions his slickened cock between Tooru's cheeks, grinding it over his hole.

 

Tooru stiffens, groans heartily as the head pierces him slowly, barely penetrating before Hajime stops, pulls out. Ruts the head of his cock over and over against Tooru's entrance until the tall brunet is mewling, voice achingly soft.

 

Gritting his teeth to bear down those shivers wracking his body, Hajime leans forward, presses Tooru flat against the door again. He dips down to seize Tooru's other leg, muscles sharpening as he pulls Tooru off his straining tip-toes and the rest of the way into his arms. He swivels, locking his legs, then lurches forward – feels the tall brunet shake within his hold, arms barely able to circle around Hajime's nape.

 

He eyes the man in his grasp, pupils blown and face burning – sees the same facade reflecting back at him. Tiny breaths seep through Tooru's lips, those swollen, tasty lips and it feels like the storm is about to officially explode in an arousal-fueled downpour within Hajime's body. Then, Tooru's hugging him tighter, and that mouth is nipping at him and the dark brunet's name is bubbling from those lips. _Iwa-chan. Iwa-chan._

 

Tooru's soft, vulnerable murmurs stir up his insides so bad that it hurts, and Hajime's teetering heavily on that line he's sworn he wouldn't cross. Instead jerks them both back and ruts his cock between those parted cheeks again, nudges and pries at Tooru's entrance with deadly precision – rubbing him just right by the way the tall brunet squirms and pants before Hajime's even thrusting inside.

 

And when he does, oh _god_ , Hajime pushes just barely into Tooru's tight hole, the wind feels like it's been punched from his lungs. What little remains of Tooru's thinly veiled (transparent like silk at this point) composure shatters instantly, body snapping and jaw dropping the very moment Hajime snaps his hips, burying his cock in one exquisite thrust. The tall brunet's head darts back, connecting noisily against the door, lip pinched between teeth as a moan – high and breathy, like a drawn out wail – rumbles from his throat.

 

He doesn't even pause for the air he doesn't have, Hajime retreats, dragging hard along those wet walls and pitches his cock back in, roughly bumping Tooru back into the door as he sheathes himself to the hilt. The man in his arms whimpers, hands fumbling for purchase, clinging like his life depends on it. Within seconds, he's setting an excruciating pace, filling Tooru to the brink over and over – ramming him hard with his pulsing cock – pounding him roughly into the door.

 

Hajime imagines that exposed skin of Tooru's back sliding and jerking against the wooden door behind him, leaving burns that blossoms into a spate of carmine under the friction. It's tantalizing in his mind, a matching, wounded plain to the wounds on Hajime's own shoulders and back. They've never been one to walk away from sex completely unscathed anyway, so he can't say he minds the damage. It's the most reliable proof that the man before him is continuously coming undone, peeling apart at the seams and losing himself in the deep motions jolting his body. He'll take it and use it to fuel his ministrations towards the childhood friend in his arms.

 

And that is all he's aiming for at this point – feel good, think less, make Tooru feel good, _think less._

 

_He can't stop thinking._

 

“Iwa-chan, it feels so good.”

 

“Jesus, shut it already, fuck,” Hajime growls without control, voice low.

 

“I _can't_ ,” Tooru moans slowly in Iwa's ear, making the dark brunet grit his teeth and piston his hips fast, dragging Tooru up against the wall harder. Tooru's squeezing around his thick cock so amazingly that a groan slips through the cracks, body tensing from the tightness barring down on him. Tooru's hands are in his hair, yanking as wet lips mouth at Hajime's taut throat and chin and closed eyelids, knees quaking and toes curling as Hajime's thrusts over and over in that dripping entrance.

 

With zero capability of restraint, Tooru mewls loud, clings for everything he has. Hajime's digging deeper and deeper inside him, carving him open with each burial of his cock. Unrelenting and tense, he drives into that heat and slowly feels Tooru's grip tighten to a painful degree. Feels the tall brunet panting hot breaths on his neck, tongue trailing up until teeth ensnare his ear lobe and then _fuck_ , those moans are right in his ear and making him dizzy.

 

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” Tooru sighs, then keens sharply as Hajime clamps down on his thighs and juts his cock so vigorously that he bounces up along the door. Hajime chokes down a series of grunts of his own, darts his vision down between them where their bodies meet. Tooru's leaking precome in thick droplets, cock hard and red like he's ready to burst. From the sounds coming out of his mouth, it's probably not far off either.

 

Even Hajime himself is rapidly climbing that stairway, each thrust shooting electricity through his body, twisting knot after knot in his belly. He can't help it, really – it's been a long while since he's last had sex. Jerking off, sure, but sex is much different than a quick hand in the shower. Sex simply _feels_ different, and even if the opportunity for a random fuck came along, he wouldn't take it. Hajime simply can't bring himself to completely cut off from this ' _childhood friend_ ' of his and move on.

 

Moving on has been long since impossible, as much as he hates to admit that.

 

Hajime's chest burns again, and he mentally curses those murky emotions crawling in like a spreading disease. He feels his own fingers clawing deep into the smooth flesh of Tooru's thighs, body automatically working against him – bring Tooru closer to him because that's what he wants deep down. And now each time the brunet in his arms presses a kiss to his skin, it lights uncontrollable fire in Hajime's system. Shutting down his guard, letting him feel more than just a dirty fuck, and slowly, Hajime begins to suffocate under all the inundation splashing in on him.

 

“Iwa...Iwa-chan,” Tooru's whimpering in his ear again, and it jolts him like sparks are crackling in his brain. Hajime almost begs him to shut his mouth because he can't take his blissful mewls and _name_ being breathed with such... _emotion_.

 

Please, _please_ , just be quiet, Hajime's mentally screaming as Tooru continues to murmur his name over and over like a bewitching spell. He tries to concentrate on anything, _anything_ other than the voice sending chills down his spine. Like the bead of sweat dripping down his brow, or how Tooru's thighs will probably have imprints from his digits pressing so deeply into them, or how _tight_ Tooru's sucking him in with every body-shifting snap of his hips. The gleam of the wooden door behind the tall brunet's curved form, the dim orange light bouncing streams of glowing iridescence across Tooru's skin, highlighting him with a patchwork of shadow and light. The scent of smoke and sweat and sex and _fuck,_ everything comes back to the man in his arms – inescapable.

 

“ _Ha – Iwa-chan_ ,” Tooru's suddenly at the front, nose nuzzling against Hajime's, and pecks his lips, pulls at his bottom lip. “Iwa-chan, I'm coming. Gonna – _a-ahh!_ “

 

Oh, fuck. Oh _fuck._

 

Hajime pulls his cock from Tooru's ass with insane haste, rubs his wet shaft between the tall brunet's legs, right up on his own dripping cock. Rubs hard and feels hot air wash over his mouth as Tooru gasps, as the tall brunet comes fast in short spurts, Hajime following close behind with a stiff grunt. The moan that gurgles from Tooru's lips as he molds them to Hajime's is sinfully raw.

 

Immediately, Tooru's murky caramel eyes are peering into Hajime's, and the gentle stroke along the dark brunet's cheekbone startles him. The hand travels, and disappears into Hajime's dark, slightly sweaty hair just at the base of his nape, and caresses the skin there.

 

Before Hajime knows it, his heart is pounding a mile a minute, ramming so hard against his rib cage that he can't help but fasten his grip further down onto Tooru's ass with a sharp jerk and pull him away from the door. Pulls him away and pads heavily to the bed, deposits the poor, dizzy man messily onto the stiff duvet.

 

Tooru's clamoring up on his elbows, eyes wide as he tries to collect himself, but Hajime is already regarding the tall brunet with a searing gaze, unfastening each button of his shirt one by one. He strips down, letting the shirt flutter to the floor, kicking his pants off an ankle and away before climbing onto the bed. His eyes drift up where Tooru's watching him, sees his mouth hanging open, breath catching as Hajime crawls over his shivering form.

 

He nudges a knee between Tooru's legs, kneading the length of his flaccid cock briefly before pushing a leg open. Tooru gasps, lips quivering before Hajime claims them for himself – kisses him hard. He feels shaking hands wrapping around him, pulling him flush to the warm body underneath him. The moist skin rubs his body in all the right places as Tooru arches up against him, desperately grasping for Hajime's touch. He swallows hard, stomach knotting up into a convoluted mess. Hell, all of his insides feel like a chaotic pool of numbness, except for that rapidly palpitating heart and the sinking pleasure already relapsing low in his belly.

 

Suddenly, Tooru's lips are at his ear, whispering between gasps, “Iwa-chan, again, _please_ –“

 

“Quiet,” Hajime clips, grinding his hips into the tall brunet's, hands pawing down taut yet smooth thighs. He drags his canines along the slope of Tooru's throat, bites already violet-patched skin and tastes the lingering flavor of sweat before retreating back to rest on his haunches. The dark brunet cups the firm curves of Tooru's kneecaps, pushes his long legs forward to further spread him apart. It makes Tooru shiver, skin breaking out in goosebumps.

 

Hajime stares at the man before him for a moment, body already aching to be back where it seemingly belongs. Where he wants to belong, in those arms. He feels muddled, choking on those lingering delusions again, and has to shake his head to rid himself of those ridiculous notions.

 

The soft sensation of fingertips on his own knees makes Hajime snap out of his stupor, darting his gaze between their groins where his slowly reviving cock rubs insistently over the brunet's and down over that exposed pink entrance. His hips feel oddly numb, but as his cock thickens with hardness again – the teasing rubs over that quivering pucker quick to flood him with arousal – the tingles return with double the intensity.

 

Gritting his teeth, he slowly pries Tooru open with the head of his cock. Tooru's breath hitches instantly, hands tightening on Hajime's legs and grabbing for purchase desperately as the dark brunet thrusts hard back into his ass – right to the hilt without an ounce of restraint.

 

Tooru arches off the bed, moans so loud it almost sounds like he's sobbing, air flooding out like water from a broken dam. The tall brunet braces the back of a hand over his mouth moments later as Hajime rolls his hips back and pitches forward sharply, steadily grinds into that heat. Hajime pushes Tooru's legs up further, hovering above him, feels droplets of sweat drip from his chin as he rocks back and forth.

 

He finds himself breathing hard, voice hoarse and unable to swallow the plethora of small groans clawing their way out because _fuck_ he's already seeing stars behind his lids when he blinks slowly. And if his coiling stomach and frenzied heart are anything to go by, round two is going to wreck him completely. He can't even think straight anymore, thoughts clinking around messily in his skull, along with the occasional internal screaming to _take Tooru harder._

 

His restraint hangs loosely off his body, pouring down – pooling deep in his belly. Hajime doesn't know what to do other than let everything drive on auto pilot, his heart, his thoughts, his feelings all officially scrambled into some disturbing amalgam he can no longer decipher. With an unstoppable moan, the dark brunet curls forward. His palms slip from their perch on Tooru's knees down to his hips, and drops his forehead on the brunet's sternum – still thrusting and holding the man below him for dear life.

 

Within seconds, a soft, shaky hand forks through Hajime's thick hair, curving around and stroking a feathery path down his cheek. His hands clamp harder on the tall brunet's waist, and hears the string of mewls bumping from Tooru's lungs with every piston of his cock. The second hand soon joins the first, fingertips branding him with much too gentle touches.

 

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru keens, voice achingly low and breathless. Hajime can only clamp his eyes shut, so close to coming already that his toes are prickling. He picks up speed, pelvis slapping noisily against lush thighs, muscles tensing almost painfully.

 

“Iwa-chan –“

“ _Don't,_ ” he growls, panting into the skin beneath his lips. _Don't do this to me_ , Hajime mentally begs, wishing he could filter out the sound of Tooru moaning his name instead of it ringing in his ear like a bell. He can't handle it anymore.

 

“Iwa-chan, I'm gonna... _come_ , again,” the tall brunet whimpers, fingers digging into his scalp, pulling him none too gently. “Please, Iwa-chan, it feels so good. It's – come together, with me, _please._ ”

 

“Fuck,” Hajime grits out, spinning wildly from Tooru's begging and his own impending orgasm, the pleasure coursing through his body dropping south with insane speed. He's not even thrusting anymore, just grinding his fully sheathed cock and rolling his hips hard – heaving as that tight heat squeezes him. Tooru sounds delirious from above, voice wavering between drawn out moans and whispering Hajime's name.

 

He feels Tooru stretching his long, milky legs forward, feet bracing themselves over Hajime's ass, as if holding him in place – unable to escape that vice heat. He can't stop now anyway, already crashing down from his messy high in violent waves. Tooru's clinging to him with everything he has, body cresting off the bed and against Hajime's firm torso, coming with a wide-mouthed cry.

 

He pants hard, throat rough with hoarseness and head almost pounding from how hard he convulsed. Tooru is not much better off, eyes staring straight up and fluttering dizzily, chest heaving as his ribs expand desperately – a struggle to take in ample enough air for his lungs.

 

For a short time, though he doesn't know how long, all Hajime can do is catch his breath, letting his head momentarily fall back onto Tooru's chest while he waits for the tightening in his throat to subside and his body to calm. For his mind to calm – normalize. Otherwise he might just say something stupid right now, like his feelings. It's a risky possibility he can't afford, not right now.

 

Not ever, the painful pang in his chest and heart and mind all remind him.

 

Taking a deep breath, willing his heart back within his rib cage, Hajime lifts his head and glances slowly at the digital clock on the nightstand, little red lights glowing in the dark room. Tooru's watches him quietly, fingers still lazily carding through the dark brunet's hair, leaving unwanted shivers on Hajime's skin.

 

Soon enough, Tooru also tosses his head towards the clock and lets out a brief, dry hum. Hajime turns back and finds the tall brunet looking at him, expression unreadable yet again. It leaves a gross pit in his stomach, one he can't shake off.

He sits up, scratching his scalp, the feeling of Tooru's fingers still lingering there. It feels weird, like an ache from a bruise, not painful, but definitely not pleasant. His dark eyes wander the creases in the sheets, unsure where to place his eyes all of a sudden.

 

With a dull throb pattering in his chest, Hajime leans back and mumbles quietly, “I'm gonna go shower.”

 

Tooru follows suit, untangling his legs from Hajime's waist, and gives a small, scratchy laugh, “Better hurry, Iwa-chan...you're not going to get any sleep.”

 

“Hah? And who's fault is that?” Hajime leans forward before he can stop himself, and pinches the tall brunet's flushed cheek. Tooru sways slightly, almost like he's leaning into the touch, but Hajime takes his hand back before the wrong idea buries in his brain again.

 

Letting out a light cough in an attempt to diffuse the stiff air building around him, around them, Hajime shuffles to the side of the bed. He can already feel his joints aching from the physical strain of rough sex, but just as he's moving to get up, Tooru catches his arm.

 

“Iwa-chan!” he calls with a gust of air. The tone in his voice alone has Hajime wavering before he even looks at Tooru. He sways in place, not quite pulling against Tooru's grip, but it makes the tall brunet tighten his hold none the less, trapping him.

 

Always, always trapping him.

 

Slowly, Hajime turns back towards his childhood friend, eyes weary, preparing for some unknown blow. Tooru gazes back with wide eyes, mouth dropping open and closed, frozen in place. The area where they're connected – hand to wrist – feels hot, but Hajime can only stare at that damned unreadable face as it fights for words.

 

“N-nevermind, ehehe,” and like a marionette whose strings have been cut, Tooru's hand drops from Hajime's arm and into his lap, unsaid words whirling around the room and leaving Hajime absolutely uncomfortable. Without a word, the dark brunet retreats to the bathroom, where he can only hope he can catch hold of his bearings.

 

To his chagrin, all Hajime can focus on through the entirety of the shower is the sensation still left on his wrist, and the unsettling replay of that last laugh before he ran away.

 

Hollow, and unmistakably sad.

 

– – –

 

The trade off for the bathroom is unbelievably awkward, for lack of a better word. Tooru shuffles by him with an uncharacteristic quietness that makes Hajime raise a brow. He can't quite bring himself to chalk it up to tiredness, either. But before he can say a word, Tooru closes the bathroom door with a gentle, almost inaudible click and the shower is running within moments.

 

Frowning, Hajime stands in the middle of the hotel room for several moments. It's at this point – though admittedly, not the first or second point he's coming across – that Hajime wishes he wasn't such a fucking coward. Maybe if he just got his pathetic confession out of the way, Tooru could just laugh it off like the brat he is and they wouldn't be stuck in this...whatever _this_ is.

 

The hole is simply too deep now though, and Hajime doesn't think he can bring himself to dig out his undeserving self.

 

With way more lethargy than he had even moments ago, the dark brunet crawls under the covers and lays on his side, facing the edge with his head propped on a bent elbow. He stares at the clock for the longest time, nodding in and out of slumber god knows how many times, until he feels the shuffling of covers behind him.

 

Tooru is back.

 

Hajime swallows slowly, doesn't move because he doesn't think he can take another round of whatever the hell happened earlier. Plain and simple, he's scared. If the rest of what they are now breaks, well, Hajime doesn't think he can handle it.

 

Tooru settles eventually, his shower-heated body resting so close that Hajime can feel that radiating warmth, along with the gaze he's sure is piercing into the back of his skull. It's so quiet in the room, so quiet and Tooru's so near that he can hear the slow, deep inhalation of air pass between the tall brunet's lips along with the slightest rustle of stiff sheets.

 

“Iwa-chan, are you awake?”

 

Hajime wishes he wasn't – that soft, morose whisper in his ear unpleasant, buzzing. Painful. The tepid breeze on his shoulder tells him that Tooru is hovering near him, proximity minimal, as does the timid, almost impalpable kiss that presses to his tense shoulder. The dark brunet flattens his lips tight in a thin line, determined to not let that shiver physically shake him.

 

Tooru's lips, after a second, firmer kiss, remain on Hajime's still form, the wisps of breath lingering every so often. All in all, Hajime feels fuzzy and confused. He can't recall a time where this has happened, not even once. It's like this is some phantom version of his best friend – only appearing in his sleep and gone by morning. Hajime finds himself holding his breath.

 

“Iwa-chan, I...” Tooru pauses mid-murmur, and for several moments, Hajime hears nothing. Nothing but that quiet hum you hear when no other sound is left to register in your mind, that subtle, uncomfortable ringing that makes you want to shake your head to get rid of it. Hajime doesn't even allow himself to adjust – arm slowly falling asleep; he's too aware, too pinpointed on the person behind him.

 

Tooru moves in again, a hand brushing the bumps of Hajime's spine, so near his nape that it leaves goosebumps in its wake. The dark brunet hears the thudding in his chest quicken, and he's almost thankful for _something_ finally breaking that eerie silence. He only hopes Tooru doesn't hear the pained melody of his heart too.

 

The tall brunet fidgets against Hajime, touches fleeting, retreating as soon as they arrive like each one burns Tooru's fingers. Hajime wonders if this behavior has anything to do with those looks from earlier, that catch of his wrist, or the words lost on Tooru's lips. Is this the culmination of those odd feelings that have been spinning around them? What about what Tooru said earlier – what he was _about to say_ so many times, but Hajime silenced him with the expectation of frivolous words?

 

His head hurts, so much, and now his thoughts can only sit and spin endlessly in his mind – no escape in sight.

 

“Iwa...” an even quieter murmur, piercing as if it's reverberating in Hajime's skull, popping that mental bubble rather abruptly. Tooru is practically spooning him from behind, carefully nuzzling into Hajime's body. Normally, the dark brunet is a heavy, _heavy_ sleeper, so he can't really deny the possibility of this being a regular occurrence too.

 

And then, ever so slowly, Tooru rests his cheek on the slope of Hajime's neck, “ _Hajime..._ ”

 

Hajime sucks in a shaky breath, making Tooru jolt slightly, but barely manages to cloak his uneven breathing with a heavy exhale. He can't hear his heart throbbing anymore, it's probably flat lining, or charging like a bomb about to explode from his chest. Hajime's instantly thankful that he's hidden from view, because that one _single name_ whispering in his ear has him wide-eyed and breathless.

 

Oh god. _Oh god._

 

Tooru lets out a light laugh, tiny and feeble, and snuggles further against Hajime's back. The room feels much smaller to the dark brunet right now, even the slightest noises from Tooru seem like they echo off the walls, echo in his mind. That damned tone, these damned touches – they hurt right down to his very core.

 

“It always,” Tooru starts, the puffs of air and the slightly damp locks of light hair brushing Hajime's neck. “It always feels the same...every time. Your name, Iwa-chan.”

 

What...?

 

The urge to turn around right that moment grows more powerful by the passing moment, because he simply can't believe what he's hearing. That – _tortured_ – way Tooru murmured his name, like he may very well break if he were any louder – no, Hajime can't handle that. His mind spirals frantically, looping every word, every nuance from tonight and everything is clicking together so ridiculously easy like a toddler's puzzle, it makes Hajime sick to his stomach.

 

Silence permeates the room soon enough, and the air feels uncomfortably thick in Hajime's lungs. Tooru isn't speaking, just laying there curled into him. Maybe he's imagining this whole thing in his extremely lethargic state. Maybe he's just experiencing a surreal illusion laced with wishful thinking. That Tooru didn't just murmur his name like a heartbroken person yearning for something unattainable. That he didn't just throw every notion of Tooru having zero ulterior feelings – besides 'they're childhood friends' and 'sex is amazing with you' – right out the god damn window.

 

Hajime ruminates, tries to collect his windswept thoughts, but he's so tired. So tired and kicking himself for his lack of power over his frail will, because if he had one ounce of the opposite, he'd be laying on his other side, confronting this person he used to have such a deep connection with – probably kissing him for all he's worth and punching him right after because _fuck,_ they're both idiots.

 

This has been going on way too long, and that's the most disturbing thought of all.

 

_If only this was back then. If only that brazen courage was still here._

 

Several minutes pass, several long, long minutes of quiet and the glaring read of the digital clock changing number by number. Just when Hajime is about to drift into an exhausted slumber, Tooru moves behind him. At first it seems like Tooru is shifting around, but timid fingers run along the edges of Hajime's shoulder blades. Phantom touches that make Hajime shiver inside. He has to fight just to breathe normally when Tooru nuzzles his nape, lashes fluttering on his skin.

 

The wetness Hajime feels, a wetness that definitely isn't from shower water, makes his heart crack.

 

He can't, he _can't_.

 

Hajime's so tired, he can't even keep his eyes open, but Tooru is right there and he just wants to flip over and smother the tall brunet until those tears are erased from existence – whether this is a dream, illusion, or reality. Even now, he can hear the wounded mutterings that leave the lips pressing at his nape.

 

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru sounds so sleepy, as if speaking in his slumber. “Oikawa-san is very serious, you know? So much that it hurts...”

 

The brunet pauses, moments feeling like an eternity, and then –

 

“ _Why can't I be yours_?”

 

The room goes silent.

 

– – –

 

Hajime wakes up to the buzzing from his phone, the object still laying face down on the carpet where he threw it in his earlier tantrum. He rubs an eye, flicking little flecks of sleep from them, and leans lazily over the edge of the bed to grab the annoying sleep interrupter. He squints at the screen; it's just past five thirty and fuck, he has to head to work.

 

Son of a bitch.

 

Feeling like utter shit, Hajime sits up, head pounding and chest still oddly aching. A weight shifts from his chest down to his lap, and the dark brunet looks down at it, slightly delirious.

 

It's Tooru's arm, loosely hanging around his waist. Hajime follows the pale skin up to look at the tall brunet's face, sleeping peacefully.

 

The words from last night, Tooru's confession, his touches – they did happen. It wasn't a dream. It _wasn't a dream._ Hajime lets out a deep breath.

 

Cowardly. Foolish. That's what they are, the both of them.

 

He groggily climbs out of bed, careful to lift Tooru's arm and place a pillow in his place – at least one of them can get some much needed sleep. Hajime quietly pads to the foot of the bed to collect his discarded clothing – and Tooru's – but finds his shirt missing. He looks back to the his sleeping childhood friend, and sees the peak of a wrinkly white sleeve from the blankets. It's in the tall brunets arms, and that only makes Hajime's chest tighten.

 

He sighs heavily, leaving it there and gathers the rest of the mess on the floor, folding shirts and pants and leaving underwear on the top of the clothing piles. He dresses just as slowly, buttoning his starchy, business-casual shirt and fastening his belt with numb fingers, the memory of the opposite flirting at the edge of his brain.

 

Dark eyes constantly wander to that lithe, naked figure sleeping on the bed, watching Tooru squeeze that pillow and Hajime's shirt to his chest. He finds himself just standing there for a time he doesn't count, just watching his childhood friend sleep, breath, _exist._

 

Slowly, Hajime walks the length of the bed, hand traveling along the edge of the mattress until he's at the nightstand. His mind, surprisingly, is clear – void of all that chaos and pain and unresolved emotions, though his heart still patters from unsaid words. He pauses, briefly, then quietly opens the drawer of the table and fishes out the hotel-complimentary stationary. Scribbles a few quick words with a pen he fetches from his shirt pocket, and leaves the note by the clock.

 

Looking one last time at the brunet slumbering, Hajime raises a hand and touches the loose bangs dipping over Tooru's brow. Swipes them out of his face, though they fall right back to the same spot as before. He almost chuckles, though he allows himself a small smile. Stubborn, unruly curls as always.

 

The gleam outside from the peeking sun on the horizon reminds him of his needed departure. Absent minded, he notes the orange glow with a faint warmth. Then, with a slow blink and a soft sigh, Hajime turns away, grabs his sparse luggage and dirty clothes.

 

He walks out the door, shutting it with a gentle click.

 

– – –

 

Six days later, Hajime stands on his small apartment balcony, smoking a cigarette, exhaling vapors and smoke into the chilly December morning air.

 

That day still pokes at him. No contact from Tooru since, and while Hajime can't say he's surprised considering Tooru's penchant for gaps of communication, he feels disappointed. Hurt, even – though he shares just as much blame as the brunet he's thinking of.

 

He shakes briefly in his coat, and takes one last drag before snuffing out the small remnants and wanders back inside.

 

Suddenly his head pops up at a light rapping noise just as he's removing his coat and absently rubbing his cold feet on the carpet. Is he hearing things? He looks at the television with a raised brow – random commercials. Another knock resounds about the living room, and this time, Hajime doesn't miss it.

 

Coughing loudly, the dark brunet dodges a cardboard box sitting haphazardly in his path, and rushes to the door – almost tripping over another pile of yet unpacked boxes next to the low-rise table. He fumbles with the chain lock, cursing under his breath at the stupid thing, and yanks the door open with zero regard for how disheveled he might look.

 

On the other side, standing impossibly close the to door, is a flushed Tooru – eyes wide and glossy. His bottom lip is pinched between teeth, and Hajime notices that the brunet is clutching a piece of paper to his chest – fingers gripping it so tight that it's severely wrinkled.

 

“Iwa...Iwa-chan,” Tooru mutters breathlessly, cheeks and lips a blotchy red. The vapor leaves his mouth in white puffs. Hajime can only stand there, rooted to his spot, staring in disbelief as his heart hammers. Tooru's mouth drops open, body swaying towards the dark brunet, but ultimately remains silent, clutching that paper to his chest even tighter as if waiting for Hajime to make a move.

 

Hajime looks down at those pink-hued fingers, that little paper, and back up into those caramel eyes before slumping against the door frame, resting a fist casually on his hip. He mutters clumsily, “You've never been a quiet one, idiot Oikawa.”

 

The words he wrote on the note – minus his address – it's all he can manage to say.

 

Tooru hiccups softly, blinking at the frosty droplets falling from his eyes – the spigot broken and tears leaving wet trails on his cheeks and spotting his light blue scarf. He sniffs loudly, and nods awkwardly, leaning just the slightest bit forward – towards Hajime. The dark brunet sighs, a small smile peeling at his lips, and lifts an arm to swipe messily over Tooru's face with a cuffed sleeve.

 

The tall brunet's lips quiver, “You're mean, Iwa-chan.”

 

“Yeah.”  
“You just left this there,” he gestures to the note in his hands. “And didn't say anything...”  
“Yeah,” Hajime mutters a little quieter.  
“I couldn't concentrate in class because I couldn't wait to see you...”

 

Hajime says nothing, only tilts his head forward.

 

“ – and now you're still calling me an idiot!” Tooru sputters, nose wrinkling stubbornly as he sniffs hard.

 

Hajime's throat closes, dryness making his voice gruff and difficult to speak, though manages a small “Mm.”

 

A sharp breath bursts from Tooru's mouth as he lets out a half laugh, half sob, tears leaking uncontrollably from his wet, brown eyes. It hurts to see, but Hajime refuses to look away. He owes him this much at least. He reaches out to touch the tall brunet's face, but it's batted away.

 

Tooru waves his head, looking sideways as if to will those tears to stop. His gaze drops to the floor, mouth pinching tight and Hajime can see his chin quivering. After a couple seconds, Tooru turns his moist gaze back up.

 

Looks right at Hajime with eyes brimming with emotion, looking straight _into_ him. His mouth opens shakily, lashes blinking and new tears falling.

 

“ _I love you_.”  
“... _yeah._ ”

 

The tall brunet's fist juts forward into Hajime's chest instantly, fingers refusing to release that paper. His voice cracks, “Mean! You're supposed to say it back, Iwa-chan! Mean, mean!”

 

He can't even help it, Hajime lets out a laugh. Can't help himself because finally Tooru is back to that whiny, bratty, endearing person he's spent most of his life with – grown up with. The feeling in his chest is undeniably warm, despite the fact that he's _kinda_ teasing Tooru, despite the fact that he's probably being a little meaner than necessary right now. But he can't help it, because the person he loves is right here, and for the first time, that ugly feeling plaguing him for months is absent.

 

Exhaling through his nose, Hajime quirks an eyebrow as he watches Tooru fidget, “Man, how long have you been standing out here? It's fucking cold, so get in here already, you damn idiot.”

 

The dark brunet grabs him hard by the scruff of his coat and yanks the yelping Tooru unceremoniously through the threshold, kicks the door shut with a firm foot. He presses him against the door, eyeing him with sharp dark browns.

 

Before Tooru even gets a word out, Hajime smooths his palms across cold cheeks, and closes in on his childhood friend and kisses him, gentle and slow. He circles one hand around to the back of Tooru's head, cups it, and pulls away just far enough to look into those russet eyes. Tooru's lips are shaking as he stares back, and his eyes flutter shut just as Hajime moves in again – kisses him again, and again. So many times that he can't count them on fingers and toes because _fuck_ , look at what they've been missing. Missing slow warmth, and unhurried touches and damn it, so many years of this lost to misunderstandings and stubborn fear. He desperately hopes that Tooru understands just how much he's wanted him too, wanted this.

 

Hajime reaches down with his other hand, slowly peels the note from Tooru's cold fingers and lets it sway back and forth as it feathers to the floor. He chuckles against Tooru's mouth as those freed, chilly digits bury into his uniform shirt, seeking warmth – warmth he'll gladly give him. Hajime proceeds to pepper him more, hold him tight.

 

God, this feels so good.

 

“I-Iwa-chan,” Tooru stutters between kisses, pulling away only slightly, but his hold on Hajime's shirt doesn't budge in the least – as if he's scared Hajime might disappear if he does. The dark brunet's stomach tumbles with butterflies.

 

Missing, missing, missing – it's high time to make it all up.

 

Lids lowering, Hajime leans forward and murmurs low in Tooru's ear, “ _Iwa-chan_? Isn't there something else you want to say?”

 

He practically feels the rocketing temperature of Tooru's face, and chuckles when the tall brunet buries his face in the crook of Hajime's neck.

 

Smiling, Hajime cradles the back of his head in his palm, fingers forking through soft tresses, “ _Tooru –_ ” Said boy trembles, and feeling the weight drop from his shoulders, Hajime finishes.

 

“I love you.”

 

He feels the man in his arms quaver, limbs loosening only to raise and loop around his neck, squeezing him so tight he can barely breathe. He returns the embrace with equal fervor, body pulsing with blithe jitters. Chilly lips pepper his skin, along with a string of wet murmurs – _I love you. Iwa-chan, I love you. So much. You big, dumb meanie. Love you._

 

Chuckling, Hajime thinks back to those times, way back in high school – back to those secret, innocent touches and kisses and affection. Thinks back to the way his heart fluttered the first time, and the shift in his feelings. The pounding of his heart then, the breathlessness of his windswept lungs. The unfiltered love he felt so strongly – before their inevitable graduation and separation, and eventual decline into occasional friends with benefits warped them.

 

He remembers them so vividly now as he presses closer to his childhood best friend, his brightest life-long dream, his _lover_.

 

It warms him inside because with Tooru in his arms, for once those distant, almost forgotten memories are not so far away.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhh. This was a near two month project and just...I never expected it to get this long. Apparently with my OTPs, I either write lots and lots of fics (Asanoya) or I cram as much feelings and smut into one huge oneshot (Iwaoi). Either way, this is my first time writing angst, or rough sex, or just...this in general. I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for the reads/kudos/comments, they are all loved and appreciated. Until next time! <3


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